Crown in Darkness

ONE

The rider goaded his horse, digging the rowels of his spurs deeper into the animal's flanks till thin red gashes appeared. The horse, head forward, foam-flecked from nostrils to withers, attempted to move faster, charging the stinging wind as if it was an enemy. It was the darkest, wildest of nights; the wind howled in, almost drowning the clamouring thunder of the waves beneath the cliff but the rider did not care about the elements or that he had apparently left his companions behind. The moon slid between the clouds and the rider turned his head against a particularly savage blast. He thought he saw shadows move there, further back across the cliff, but then dismissed them as phantasms, the product of too much rich food and blood-red Gascon wine. No, he had to reach Kinghorn where Yolande was waiting. He thought of his new French Queen. The beautiful face of a Helen of Troy framed by hair jet-black as the deepest night, olive, perfumed skin and a small curvaceous figure clothed and protected in a profusion of satins, velvets and Bruges lace. He wanted her now; to possess that soft warm body, ripping aside the protests and the pretences. Perhaps she would conceive, bear a son, give Scotland a Prince. A vigorous boy to wear the crown and protect it against the ring of wolves and falcons both at home and abroad. He must reach Kinghorn and scarred his horse angrily with his spurs. The animal, its brave heart near to bursting, gave its best, almost flinging itself forward along the cliffs edge. Suddenly it stumbled, tipping sideways, and crumpled to its knees amongst the loose shale. The rider, flung up against the dark sky, fell through the night, his fingers clawing the air as he plunged down to the waiting rocks.

'Hugh Corbett, Clerk, to Robert Burnell, Bishop of Bath and Wells and Chancellor of England, greetings. My escort and I have now arrived at Edinburgh, secure in both body and soul, though still exhausted after a wearying journey.' Corbett put the sharp quilled pen down and rubbed the ache in his thighs. It had been, he thought, a terrible journey. He and a small escort had left London at the end of March and travelled by horseback through Newark, Lincoln, Newcastle, Tynemouth and Berwick. The cold had been biting, knife-edged eastern winds, flea-ridden ale-houses with only the occasional luxurious break in a comfortable priory or monastery where he could bathe the saddle-sores on his backside and thighs. His body-servant, Ranulf, had become ill and was left at Tynemouth Priory, and there had been other dangers. Corbett turned back to his letter. 'It may interest your Lordship to know that the legislation enacted last year at the Parliament held at Winchester needs to be enforced. Roads and highways have not been cleared a hundred yards back and twice we were attacked by outlaws. Once outside Newark and again near Tynemouth, by crude fellows with crossbows, mallets and rusty daggers, but we beat, them off.' Corbett realised he was understating the incidents: the countryside was plagued by gangs of landless, desperate men. God knows, he, a clerk to the Justices of the King's Bench, had seen such men tried and hanged, twirling by their necks, legs kicking, tongues out, their blackening faces and protruding eyes sufficient warning to any others who tried to break the King's peace. Especially, Corbett thought, after the new measures to enforce law and order brought in by King Edward at the Winchester Parliament of 1285. Edward I of England had now been on the throne for thirteen years and was still eager to enforce his authority in every nook and cranny of his kingdom. Two years earlier, he and his cunning old Chancellor, Robert Burnell, had used Corbett to root out rebellion, treason and murder in London. Corbett, helped by his servant, Ranulf, was successful but the venture had cost him dear. Edward I and his Chancellor, Burnell, were hard taskmasters and had not flinched from sending the woman Corbett loved to a savage death in the fires of Smithfield. Corbett sighed and continued his letter. 'We crossed the Scottish border without incident except for a troop of men wearing the livery of the Lord Bruce, who stopped us and examined our warrants before letting us continue into Edinburgh.'

Corbett broke off to sharpen the quill. Scotland! The men he had met were tough border-raiders dressed in rags but well-armed with steel helmets, boiled-leather jerkins, leggings and stout boots in the stirrups of small but sturdy-looking garrons or mountain ponies. They each carried a shield, lance and dagger, and seemed eager to use them. Corbett suspected that they would have preferred to cut his throat. He did not understand their strange, rough language, though their leader, a smooth-shaven young man with eyes as hard as flint, understood French and carefully studied the letters and writs Corbett and his escort carried, before allowing them to pass into his strange, wildly beautiful country.

The north of England had been a new experience to Corbett who had served in Edward's armies in France and Wales, but Scotland was something different. Quieter, more lonely, beautiful yet menacing. He had observed it carefully as he travelled into Edinburgh. Vast forests of pine, dark and forbidding, where boar and wolf ruled; wide wastes of lonely, haunting moor, bogs, mountains and lakes covered the land. In England, the old Roman highways, sometimes much broken but their foundations still solid, spread out from London to form the main routes for travel. In Scotland, apart from the King's Highway, the Via Regis, there were few roads, only beaten tracks. Corbett had found it difficult to reach the royal burgh of Edinburgh and, when he did, bitterly wondered if it had been worth the effort. Perched on its craggy plateau, its grim fortress a mile separate from the abbey of Holy Rood, Edinburgh had been cold, dank and uninviting. Corbett and his escort had gone direct to the castle to present their credentials and were brusquely sent back to be housed in the cold, bleak, whitewashed cells of the abbey's guesthouse.

He had wasted two days before writing this letter and was reluctant to continue it for, after seven weeks of travel, he still had little news for his master. He had met the leader of King Edward's special embassy to the Scottish court, John Benstede, chaplain to Edward I, who had extended to Corbett the warmest of greetings. Corbett had liked him; he knew Benstede by reputation as a cleric fanatically loyal to Kind Edward who entrusted him with the most delicate, diplomatic missions. Benstede had a keen lawyer's brain, belied by his rosy, cherubic face, snow-white hair and rubicund figure. Thankfully, he had accepted without question Corbett's explanation that Burnell had sent him because of the crisis at the Scottish court.

Corbett rose, wrapped his cloak about him and walked slowly round the bare, bleak room. Burnell had summoned him to Westminster at the end of March and blundy announced that, because of the sudden and mysterious death of King Alexander III of Scotland, Corbett was to travel to Edinburgh and ascertain the true cause of the Scottish King's death. Corbett had cursed, cried, pleaded and begged, but Burnell was adamant. The Chancellor had sat impervious behind his great desk and quietly ticked off on his white, plump, bejewelled fingers, the reasons he had chosen him; Corbett was a trained Chancery clerk, an expert in legal affairs, young enough (was he not in his thirty-sixth year?) to withstand the rigours of a journey. Corbett had war experience, fighting for King Edward in Wales and, Burnell added quietly, Corbett had already, shown that he could be entrusted with secret business and confidential matters. Corbett had reluctantly agreed and so Burnell handed over letters of introduction for the Scottish court and to Benstede, Edward's special envoy to Edinburgh.

Corbett stopped pacing round the room, slumped on to the stool and crouched over the small, red-hot brazier to warm his chilled fingers. Then had come the strange part for Burnell had made it quite clear that Corbett was his special emissary, not the King's. He was to report only to the Chancellor, and certainly not to the King or Benstede. No one was to know why Corbett was really in Scodand. He was to write direct to Burnell and only use as envoys the members of the escort who accompanied him into Scotland. Corbett had asked the reason why but Burnell had brusquely dismissed him.

Corbett picked up the pen again and began to write. 'I have met Benstede and he has told me a litte of what is happening in Scodand. On the evening of 18th March, King Alexander III was feasting with his court at Edinburgh Castle, (Benstede himself was there). Alexander suddenly announced that, despite the fierce storm raging outside, he intended to ride to his manor at Kinghorn where his new queen, the French princess, Yolande, was awaiting him. Alexander III of Scotland, ever a sanguine man, refused to listen to any advice and departed the palace, hastening along the road to the ferry at Dalmeny where he hoped to take a boat across the Firth of Forth. There, the ferrymaster also tried to dissuade him but Alexander was insistent and so the ferrymaster rowed the king and two of his squires across the three miles of water to the burgh of Inverkeithing where the royal purveyor met them with horses. Once more an attempt was made to turn Alexander from his impetuous journey, but the King refused to listen and he and his squires galloped off into the howling darkness. Apparently the little party lost contact with one another and the next morning the King was found dead on the seashore below the cliffs, his neck quite broken.' Corbett bit the quill of his pen before continuing. 'Naturally, certain questions spring to mind immediately.

Item – Why did Alexander insist on returning to his wife on such a wild night, braving the very dangerous crossing of the Firth of Forth and an equally perilous ride to Kinghorn?

Item – Why the sudden haste and with so small an escort? Item – If it was lust for his young wife, then surely he could have waited? Alexander III of Scotland had been married before to the late lamented Princess Margaret, sister of our good Lord, King Edward. Princess Margaret died in about 1275 and King Alexander III did not marry his second wife, Yolande of Dreux, until October 1285. In the intervening ten years the Scottish King had hardly been a chaste man and was accustomed to pursuing women. According to common report he would brave all weathers to visit matrons and nuns, virgins and widows, by day or night as the fancy seized him, sometimes in disguise, often accompanied by only a single servant. He did this on the night of his death. But why? He was no longer the fresh, young groom for he and Queen Yolande had been married some five months. Indeed, there is a rumour that the Queen is bearing his child.

Item – If the King was so overcome with desire, surely there were other ladies of the court who could have assisted him in this matter. Indeed, when he landed at Inverkeithing the royal purveyor is alleged to have said -"My Lord, stay with us and we will provide you with all the desirable ladies you want until the morning light". Benstede told me this to indicate the King's lustful mood. I cannot understand why such an offer was refused and such a dangerous journey undertaken, especially when there is gossip that King Alexander and Queen Yolande were not passionately attached to each other. Item – It would appear that Alexander made a spontaneous decision to leave for Kinghorn but, if that is so, then why was the purveyor waiting for him at the far side of the Firth?'

Corbett sighed and read through his notes before continuing. 'There must be satisfactory answers to all of these questions and I will try to find and communicate them to you without raising suspicion, although this will be difficult. The general situation in Scotland has stabilised. Alexander left no immediate heir but the barons have already sworn allegiance to the young princess of Norway. She claims the throne through her mother, Alexander's daughter, who married King Eric of Norway. She is only a child and absent from the country, therefore a Regency Council of Guardians has been set up. This consists of my Lords Stewart and Comyn, the Earls of Buchan and Fife and the Bishops of St. Andrews and Glasgow. I will write again. God save you. Written at the Abbey of Holy Rood, 16th May 1286.'

Corbett checked the letter before rolling and sealing it clumsily with wax. His fingers were numb with cold and writing for so long. He got up and poured himself a cup of cheap, rather bitter wine, and went to sit on the narrow straw-filled pallet of a bed. He had told Burnell that all was well. Yet it was not. There was a tension, a feeling of lonely menace in the royal palace of Holy Rood. Too many prophecies about Alexander's death and, though little Margaret of Norway was the acknowledged heir, there were others with claims to the throne and many more prepared to seek their own advantage in the confusion caused by a disputed succession, not least the powerful Scottish families whom Alexander had kept so firmly under control during his long reign. Corbett swung his legs onto the pallet and thought of the question the great Cicero used to ask about any murder – "Cui bono?" – who profits? Who did gain from King Alexander's fall into blackness on that dark night? Was the fall an accident or the brutal murder of a royal prince, Christ's anointed? Corbett was still thinking on this as he fell into an uneasy sleep.